


The Happiest Moment

by SuperLizard



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Child Abuse, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Intrigue, M/M, Original Villains, Political Alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25837810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperLizard/pseuds/SuperLizard
Summary: Originally written in 2007 and posted to Ff.net as Captain L. Vayne Solidor becomes a villain. Larsa Solidor becomes a hero. Spoilers thru the end. T for violence, language, drama, suggestion of intercourse.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Language, child abuse.

Chapter One: Solidarity  
Vayne's relationship with his father had always been one of business. He understood that his creation was a business transaction between his father and his mother; his father provided greater standing to his mother's house, and his mother provided his father with a son. Vayne's relationship with his mother was non-existent; she died as a result of that same business transaction. He had always felt a certain distance from everyone around him; the servants and house staff treated him as their young master, his father treated him with complete formality or open hostility, and his brothers treated him as a nuisance.

Touch-starved, he grew sickly at first; he was often taken ill, and spent much time reading. This created an even larger gap between he and his brothers, as both of his brothers were formidable sportsmen and warriors. His eldest brother, Leonalt, was no great loss, as Vayne had always found him unspeakably dull; but his middle brother, Royen, only seven years older than he, was the object of all his aspirations. He dearly wished to be just like his middle brother when he grew up.

Royen wanted to be emperor when he grew up. He made this abundantly clear, whenever anyone asked him about his future plans. He was going to create a federally-administrated healthcare system, bring steel industries to Archadia to employ the Lower Archadians, build schools for the poor—and require all ladies to wear clothes appropriate to their build. Which, in Royen's opinion, required fat women to cover up and shapely women to not.

Vayne had always thought of Royen as the comedian and the brain of the family, but he quickly learned that he was just a little bit smarter than both of his brothers. He kept that fact to himself, thinking that it would only put more distance between himself and his honoured lord brothers.

He avoided his father at all costs. Whenever possible, he would remove himself from his father's presence or cling to Royen's side, hoping to be ignored. When he was not ignored, usually he was punished for something he did not do—often enough, his brothers had framed him for whatever it was (missing cookies, a mess in the library, fingerprints tarnished into the shining blades of swords), but he did not begrudge them the fact.

Often enough, it was corporal punishment that rewarded him for forgiving his brothers. His father was often wont to use a belt or cane on his sons, but he would easily order the house staff to do so. "If they act outside of their realm," he once told the stablemaster, "do not be afraid to whip them. Only do it not on their faces or hands."

And they were provided with clothes that covered all but their faces and hands, even in warm weather.

It was after one of these beatings that he first ran away from his father's house.  
He had first gone to his middle brother's room, not knowing what else to do. He crept out of his room, knowing that his father would flay him if he knew he was out of his quarters again after curfew; he crept down the hall, sneaking so quietly that, had anyone actually been in the hallway, they would not have heard him. He tapped gently on Royen's door.

There was a formal call from the other side of the door. "Come."

Timidly, Vayne reached for the doorknob, trying to twist it; but the blood on his tiny hands made his grip slip. He growled at himself impatiently, trying again, but to no avail.

A moment later, Royen cracked open the door and glanced with annoyance at his ten-year-old brother. "What are you doing about? Get back to your quarters and wash up. Our Lord Father will skin you alive if he finds you."

Vayne trembled a little, and opened his mouth to try and beg, but the words never materialized. Instead, he looked to his feet and sniffled pitifully.

"Oh, now, dear brother," Royen sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, a gesture which from him signalled irritation. "Are you not too old for tears, now?" He knelt down and pulled his brother to him briefly and stiffly, as if unaccustomed to such a display. After a moment, he released him and pried the clinging hands from his arms. "Now get you back. Father will be furious if you are out of your room."

Vayne sniffled again, and ran back to his room, disregarding his previous use of stealth, and slammed his door. He cried and cried, but as he did, a part of him separated, distanced; this part candidly directed him to clean his hands and face, to put some clothes and the little money he personally possessed into a travel sack, and to exit his room through the window. Even as he continued to sob, he made his way over the balcony rail, along the façade moulding, and dropped into the ornamental shrubs. The fall did not hurt him, but the thorns of the shrub did; this he ignored. He hid in the shadows while one part of him wondered why not even his own brother cared to know that he was hurt, and the other plotted his escape.

A carriage sat out front; it was not one of the gaudy, bird-pulled carriages currently in fashion, but a magicite-powered creation of metal and smooth lines. He could catch a ride out in that, if he stowed away.

He scurried out into the light of the drive in front of the house, jerked open the back door, and shoved himself into the floorboard, closing the door behind him as quickly and as quietly as possible.

He waited. And waited. His tears stopped, and his breathing steadied. He could feel blood drying on his arms, but he still felt it on his back. He tried to keep it off of the interior of the car. He waited longer. Soon, he felt his eyelids drooping, his breath deepening. He was exhausted from the events of the evening. Surely he would awake when the driver of the carriage returned.

No such luck. He next awoke to a familiar man hovering over him, glasses drooping over his nose, carriage door held open at arm's length. "Well, well," the man exclaimed quietly. "What do we have here?"

Vayne peered up in sleepy-eyed terror, knowing that this man—Cid? Doctor Cid Bunansa; he had heard the house staff announce him as such. This man worked for his father. A scientist. He had no idea what kind of reaction a man in the employ of his father might have. Fear twisted around his insides. He felt the need to puke, but instead, he just stared at the ground and whispered, "If you let me go, I'll not bother you again. Only do not tell my father."

Cid whistled softly in amazement or amusement. He knelt beside the carriage. "It would be unwise to run off, little Solidor. Your father will find you, one way or another."

"I myself have already begun to reconsider the wisdom of my actions," he muttered emotionlessly.

The man laughed a little, eyes smiling. "You're sharp for such a young boy. Come out of the carriage, let's have a look at you." He reached into the floorboard of the carriage and wrapped his hands around Vayne's arms, meaning to help him out. His hands pressed the material of Vayne's sleeves against Vayne's arms, and the off-white material quickly soaked in the half-clotted blood. He sat back, expression suddenly dark. "Oh yes," he mumbled to himself, gaze on Vayne. "Yes, of course."

The boy looked away in shame, cursing himself for not washing more thoroughly before he left the house. Now, he was folded uncomfortably in the back of a carriage and he had just bled all over a strange man. Again, he bit back the need to vomit.

When Cid spoke again, his voice was soft, and his gaze was gentle. "Let's get you inside and get you cleaned up, shall we? Then we shall decide what to tell your Lord Father." He reached into the carriage and gathered Vayne up, blood and all, and carried him into the house. He called instructions to the manservant at the door; park the carriage, and draw a bath.

Vayne clung to the man desperately, his face buried in the broad shoulder presented to him. He did not cry, nor did he throw up, nor did he even sniffle. He would not allow himself that.

Cid quietly called for Ffamran's nursemaid to join them in the washroom, and to bring a change of clothes. She appeared as a silent and unobtrusive shadow, helping to remove Vayne's boots, trousers, vest, and shirt. It was only after he stood, in shorts only, that the full extent of the damage became apparent.

The boy screwed his eyes shut and felt the cold seeping into his skin, the blood oozing over his back, and the eyes of the stranger he just knew was going to ask what he had done to deserve it, why he was so much trouble and why had he come here? He finally began to cry.

He found himself quickly embraced again, and he heard Cid's voice muttering comforting things at him. He grasped the man's collar and cried until he could cry no more, hiding in the deceptively cushy arms and wishing to every god that would hear him that the entire world that he could die in that moment.

It took minutes to calm Vayne down again, but eventually, between Cid and Ffamran's nanny, they got him cleaned up, bandaged, dressed, and tucked him in to sleep on a pallet bed in Ffamran's room. The five year old did not awake when they quietly prepared a place for Vayne, but once Vayne was settled, Cid awoke him gently. Vayne listened to their exchange, heart twisting, and he quietly wished his father was more like Cid.

"Ffamran?"

"Mm…"

"Ffamran, we have a visitor staying in the house tonight. He's going to sleep on the floor next to your bed."

"'s a lil boy, too?" Ffamran's five-year-old grammar did not seem to clear as he awoke.

"Yes. His name is Vayne."

"Is he gonna be my lil brover?"

Cid chuckled. "No, but he may be spending time here from now on. He'll be like a big brother, I hope."

Vayne's heart lodged in his throat, and he stared at Cid with a wild hope.

Cid nodded to him, understanding.

"Oh," Ffamran sounded disappointed, but treated the news with a sophisticated (long-suffering) acceptance. "A big brover. 's better than no brover, I suppose."

Cid chuckled and kissed his son on the forehead. "I love you, Ffamran. I will see you at breakfast."

"Mmkay," the boy yawned widely. "Love you too, daddy."

The man smiled, tucking the blankets around his son's shoulders, and stood. He paused, and stooped for a moment.

Vayne felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and he looked up, exhausted and numb.

"You will always be safe here," Cid whispered, then left him to sleep, closing the door to the hall after him.

Vayne Solidor slept more soundly on that pile of blankets on the floor than he ever had in his bed in the imperial palace.


	2. Family

Cid returned Vayne to the imperial palace personally, that next morning. Gramis took time out of his busy schedule to meet them at the door; Cid carefully noted that there was no one else in the grand hall to attend. He knew what that could mean for either himself, Vayne, or for them both.

He gathered all of his personal charm and gave Gramis a grin he didn't feel. "Your Lordship, I present to you the young Lord Vayne, who has expressed a dear interest in my work. Would you know, he stowed away in my carriage this evening last, on hopes that he could speak with me about it? He's a very clever boy, you know."

"Is that so?" Gramis raised an eyebrow at his son.

Vayne tried not to flinch.

"I've been in the market for a lab assistant," Cid continued, as if the father and son weren't in the middle of a glare-battle of epic proportions. "And he may be just the boy for the job. If you'll allow it, of course."

Gramis turned his stony gaze to Cid. "I'll certainly consider it. Vayne, go to your quarters and stay. There."

Cid gave Vayne's hand an encouraging squeeze, then released him to obey his father. The two men were left alone in the room. As soon as the door closed, Cid's tone became considerably less amiable. "Someone has been beating your son, Lord. You may wish to look to that."

"It is hardly any of your business," Gramis told him coldly, "what I do to discipline my sons. I do apologize that he snuck into your car, but if you feel the need to speak on the matter further, I can always make known that you kidnapped my son. I do wonder what a man like yourself would do with a little boy who isn't your own son." He paused for a moment. "Or what you do to your own son."

"You're a sick bastard," Cid growled, fists clenched. He worked his jaw for a moment before he was able to spit out his demands. "The boy comes to work for me as my lab assistant. If I detect that you have harmed him in any way, I will report to the public that the good Emperor Gramis beats his sons like dogs. That might hurt your chances for remarriage a bit, depending on the kind of woman you're trying to attract. And if you make any statements about me personally, I will take all of my research and the related developments directly to House Alexi. I am quite certain they won't mind what you say about me, and they could certainly use the patent rights." It was his turn to pause for a moment. "Oh. That might hurt your chances for re-election as well."

Gramis growled audibly. "Walk carefully, Bunansa. Men like you may find trouble in their paths, when they speak so far out of their realm."

Cid smiled mirthlessly, then chuckled; after a moment, he laughed outright. "You dare! Well, as I see it, any trouble to befall me would befall the House Solidor, as well—especially since you need me." He adjusted his spectacles, radiating a cold sort of bemusement. "You need what I know about nethicite, if you want to keep your army well-augmented. And if you don't have your army, Lord Gramis, what have you got, hm?" He smirked, then gave a little mocking bow. "I believe we are finished here, Emperor. I expect to see the young Lord Vayne at my residence at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. Good day."

And with that, Cid left Gramis alone in his own hall.

Vayne was taken to the Bunansa residence at nine sharp, five days out of the week, for the next several years of his life. He helped Cid carry books to and from Draklor, clean and care for lab supplies, and brought coffee or lunch as the circumstances required. In return, Cid taught him everything he knew about magicite, nethicite, and how to be a human being. Sometimes, they would take a day off and lounge about the Bunansa residence; Vayne would play with Ffamran or Ffamran would chase the dogs around while Vayne and Cid discussed work or politics or anything that came to mind.  
Aside from official functions, Vayne never spent much time with his actual family. His attachment to his brothers slowly waned and he found himself given to call Cid 'father' if he did not mind his tongue. Cid never seemed to mind, and sometimes went as far as to call him 'son,' though if he meant it in a manner suggesting their age gap or their surrogacy of relationship, Vayne was never sure.

In this way, he barely noticed when his father remarried. Vayne was busily running his own experiment, trying to determine the rate of Mist energy transfer between standard magicite and the manufacted nethicite Cid had created in the lab. He was so busy trying to establish a standard quality for manufacting that he nearly missed puberty altogether.

If it hadn't hit him like a ton of bricks, he may not have even noticed.

One day, it seemed, he was a scrawny kid with trouble keeping his hair out of his face; the next, he was developing muscles and a sex drive, and he was awkward. Frankly, he did not have the time for it.

Until being a man demanded time for it.

And upon that occasion, to whom does one turn for guidance?

One afternoon, after a particularly unproductive and ultimately aggravating day in the labs, Cid brought Vayne back to the house for supper and to enjoy listening to the radiocast of the Archadian Soccer League match between the Imperial team and the team playing at the colony of Landis. "That's why we go out and conquer other nations, after all," he had informed Vayne when he had taken the day off to listen to the final match in the Archadian Cup the year past. "To bring them the trappings of civilization. Without soccer, all sentient races suffer in a most unsportsmanlike way."  
He had been joking, of course, but Vayne had taken to soccer almost immediately upon watching a match, and when Ffamran had grown enough, he and the younger boy had adopted their own more brutal rules which included form tackles and sometimes skinned knees. Vayne secretly agreed—all of the world must know about this wonderful sport.

It was in a break during such a game that Cid slyly dropped the question.

"So… any lady friends yet?"

Vayne immediately blushed from neckline to eartips. "Er… well…"

"Ah HAH!" the man cheered. "I take that as a 'yes.' Well, what's she like? Beautiful? Smart? Graceful?" He sat back, folding his hands on his middle with a very paternal knowing smile.

"Um… well… yes, to all of the above, but…" he squinted at the ceiling, trying to find a way to word his thoughts without giving too much away. "She's… not someone I should pursue. Because of who I am and who my father is, and such."

"Ah, forbidden love. The best kind." Cid sat forward again and regarded him directly. "You know you must pursue her."

"What?!" Vayne exclaimed. He was not having this conversation…

"You must! Unwritten rules of teenage love," he said as if it were something everyone in the world knew. "Separate circles of society, star-crossed lovers and all that. It's in the manual."

"What manual?" he asked, mock suspiciously. "No game, old man, I don't trust your sources."

"It's in the manual," he insisted. "Right between Tax-evasion and Testosterone. Teenage love. Look it up."

Vayne had chuckled, feeling considerably more at ease for the joke. Cid knew how to handle awkward subjects; that was one of the more important things Vayne would learn from him. But in this moment, he was about to make an extremely poor judgement call. "Alright. I shall pursue her."

"Let me know how it works out for you," Cid encouraged, giving him a hearty pat on the shoulder. "I'm going to check on Ffamran. Tell me if anything happens in the game."


	3. Property of the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has underaged sex in it. It would-- and should-- be considered statutory rape in our societies. It does not express approval or condone any similar behavior.

Chapter Three—Property of the Father  
And so it was.

Gramis entertained quite often, and he had been insisting on Vayne's presence at his parties more and more often. The picture-perfect family could be a very powerful political image, and the emperor sought to capitalize on it more and more. He spoke to them as much as they would tolerate in the tones a father might use; he called them his strong son, his talented son, and his clever son.

Vayne almost resented being called clever by such a man.

However, he was subject to this man's whims, all the same. On the evening of importance, his whims were a costume ball, held in the Imperial Palace, in honour of the retirement of the Senate majority leader, a 'dear friend' of the Solidor family. Vayne had seen him once or twice, but had never spoken to the man directly.

The costumes were aforementioned Senator's wife's idea, but Gramis and his wife had embraced the concept whole-heartedly. Gramis was costumed elaborately as Mateus, and his wife, as the captive Shiva. She did not remain captive for long, however, as Gramis had a great deal of socializing to do with the more powerful families of Archades.

Costumes had been made for his sons; Leonalt was gawdily dressed as Exodus, and had excused himself at the earliest possible moment to be with his Rozarrian friends. Royan had chosen his own costume, and had chosen Adrammelech, muttering venomously behind his father's back, "Someone has got to control you monsters. I will be your king." The middle brother attended his father around the floor, taking his part in the talk-and-posture custom of the Archadian upper class. Vayne, attached to the ideals of order and structure, had chosen a stylized Hashmal costume. The lion's mane blended with his own hair at shoulder level, leaving his neck and shoulders free. He tried to keep the rest of the costume as understated as possible, despite his father's insistence that it be grand; even so, he felt trapped.

Then again, it may have been the party which caused him to feel so. He knew the social mores and required etiquette of court functions—he was, after all, a Solidor and the son of an emperor—but he felt no particular need to be involved. He didn't want to become emperor, like Royan.

And so it was that he was left at the head table with no one but a few gossiping nobles and the woman of his wet dreams.

She sat to his right, gazing boredly over the dance floor and the surrounding ring of nobility and statesmen. Idly, she sipped wine and toyed with her costume braids. Her face was painted, but Vayne could tell she was young—no more than six or seven years older than himself, at the most, and certainly to his liking.

She glanced over and caught him staring at her; she smiled as he looked away shyly. Thus advised of his attention, she stood and floated over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Dance with me."

The order took him off-guard. He raised his eyebrows in the most stately expression of surprise he could manage.

"You are the son of the Lord Emperor, are you not?" she asked with a tone of amusement and a half-smile. "Surely you know how to dance."

He stood up in a hurry, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles chivalrously. "Lady Deyanira, I do. It would be my honour." He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her to the floor, heart pounding in his chest like a small bird trying desperately to escape a cage. Perhaps this young woman is much like a small bird, as well; trying to escape.

She danced like a bird, despite her partial inebriation. Vayne followed the muscle memory his training had instilled in him, stepping easily and as gracefully as she did; he guided her awkwardly at first, afraid to touch, but she pushed herself in his personal space until his hormone-hazed teenage mind could no longer sort out anything but touching. He let his hands roam discretely about her painted skin where the costume exposed it. She encouraged him by bringing herself to his hands where he dare not bring his hands to her.

Moments or hours later, they stopped to take a rest. Vayne glanced quickly about the room while Deyanira drank wine and caught her breath. No one was watching them. Indeed, no one seemed interested. All eyes were on Gramis and the retiring senator, and they seemed to be jointly telling a very amusing story. All the better, he smirked to himself.

"You dance by the book, Lord Vayne," Deyanira purred directly into his ear, running her painted nails up and down his back.

Vayne froze as her hands skated around his sides, palms pressing against his belly.

"What else have you learned to do by book?" she breathed against his neck, pulling him gently back against her.

He smelled the alcohol on her breath, heard the tone of her voice, felt the intention of her hands, all more than he understood her words. He turned slowly, reaching out, breath lengthening dangerously. As her hands wrapped around his and tugged slightly at his wrists, he could do nothing but follow.

They fairly ran down the halls and hid around corners, unseen by the house staff, until they reached Vayne's quarters. Once inside, Deyanira locked the door and threw herself onto him, hands in his hair and at his neck, pulling him so that she was between the wall and his solid, warm frame. She discarded the lion headdress hastily and unclasped the hook-and-eye at the back of his neck.

As she removed his clothing, he explored every part of her body with his hands, eager and young and unafraid; his mouth traced her neck, up to her ear, and down her jaw. The only thing either of them heard was the other's breathing.

Deyanira grasped him to her, chin resting on his shoulder, and rubbed just the right way. Vayne gasped, holding her in return and stopping his kisses on her rather generous breasts, moaning and nearly losing himself. She impatiently tore at his breeches as he unhooked the deep blue halter bra, taking a moment to contain himself and at the same time giving her breasts thorough exploration and a healthy squeeze. She whimpered in aggravation, pushing him back until he fell against the bed.

Once they got down to the act, Vayne was careful to be slow. He had heard somewhere that women liked it slow, heard from the scientists in the Draklor coffee room as they spoke in lewd tones about their wives or mistresses. He had heard that women liked to make love, not simply mate. But here was this beautiful creature, writhing beneath him, begging in sweet, gasping breaths for him to move faster and push harder.

They made love for a few hours. As they relaxed after the final round, Vayne held Deyanira against him and enjoyed the pleasure of simply touching and holding her. He felt as if he had waited all his life to touch and be touched in such a way. He felt as if all the world ceased to matter; his father, his brothers, Archadia—with Deyanira in his arms, he could be content.

And it was with that young-man's feeling of nobility and love that he spoke when she pulled away, dressing and preparing to take her leave.

"Stay with me," he requested gently.

"If anyone found us together, your father would kill us," she replied impatiently. "I have to wash up and leave."

"He will do no such thing," Vayne insisted.

"Is that so?" Deyanira scoffed, hooking her top behind her and pulling a face at the blue body paint all over Vayne and his bed sheets. "You'll have those disposed of, shan't you?"

He disregarded the sheets. "Deyanira, he'll not cause us harm. He needs me, and I shall protect you."

"Gramis has three sons," she reminded him, "And you are but the youngest."

It was his turn to scoff. "Royen is too ambitious and far too cruel, father will not let him inherit. And have you noticed that my dear Lord Brother Leonalt is a little over-fond on his Rozarrian friends? His male Rozarrian friends? And my father is too old to produce any more sons."

She frowned at him, hesitating. "I cannot. I belong to—"

"Leave him," Vayne interrupted. "I will protect you from all the world."

She smiled a little at him as if wishing to believe such; she leaned back over the bed to kiss him on the forehead. "You are a fine young man, Vayne Solidor. Have the sheets cleaned." She turned and left.

He sighed and sat back, smiling to himself a little and basking in the warm glow that sex had left on him. He would win Deyanira over, in time. For now, he was content to have lost his virginity at the ripe old age of fifteen.

A proud, mischievous part of him wondered what Royen might say; he was fairly certain Royen had not lost his virginity until the age of eighteen, when he was betrothed and sought out his wife before the wedding night. He wondered what Cid might say, but he decided quickly not to inform him of anything. He would, however, have a story to tell in the coffee room in Draklor, next time the sons of the scientists took to jealous gossip.

They shall be even more jealous, now.


	4. Property of the Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: character-typical misogyny

Chapter Four— Property of the Son  
Vayne had thought wrong; Gramis had indeed proven himself young enough to produce another heir. Gramis, while mildly proud, was likewise mildly disinterested; as with his previous wives, his relationship with the Lady Deyanira was purely one of business, and the production of this current heir was, as with his previous sons, a business transaction.

As such, his lady remained cloistered for the duration of her pregnancy, and laboured without the company of her husband. Her cries were brutal, and echoed through the back hallway of the Imperial Palace; Vayne heard them when he returned from his weekly weapons training. He ignored them at first, insult at having been jilted for his father still smouldering in his young heart. He went to his quarters and just as he was about to close the door, he heard his father's voice in the hallway.

"Have word sent to me when I have a fourth child." He sounded irritated, and barked curt orders at the servants in just that manner. "She's been at this all day. I have too much to do to wait around."

Vayne frowned as he heard his father march away, and he looked to the ground. It would be horribly awkward, to go to this woman; but it didn't seem right to leave her to suffer alone. He dropped his armour behind the door and heaved a long-suffering sigh, then made his way to the room of his father's wife.

The midwives gave him a puzzled look as he entered, but he ignored them. He went to the bedside and took Deyanira's hand in his. "My lady," he greeted quietly.

She squinted at him in pain and exhaustion. "Young lord," she returned with an odd quirk of a half-smile, then a grimace.

"How may I be of service to you?" he offered, completely unsure of what to do and more than a little embarrassed that he was even in the room.

She smiled again and squeezed his hand. "Hold on," she advised. "By the end of this evening, you shall have a little brother or sister."

"I pray that at the end of this evening, I still have a step-mother, as well." He ground his teeth together as she gripped his hand, vice-like.

They sat together in the company of many busy midwives for nigh on another hour, before she gave one last cry, echoed after by the shouts of the midwives and the quiet cry of a child.

"This house has been blessed with a son," the head midwife informed Deyanira.

The new mother smiled and collapsed back against the pillows. "Lord Vayne, see to it that my husband does not name your brother something horrible. I am going to sleep." And with that, she passed out.

Vayne quirked an eyebrow at the comment, but the midwives did not seem alarmed that she had lost consciousness, and therefore neither would he.

They quickly cleaned the child and ensured his health, then wrapped him in a thick blanket and turned their attention to the mother.

"Here, Lord Vayne," one of the midwives set the child in his arms before he could object. "Your young Lord Brother."

\--

Vayne Solidor's entire world stopped spinning. Time ceased to pass. The sun halted its descent. The wind no longer travelled. Everything froze.

The tiny, reddish, puffy creature in his arms stilled and quieted, hearing a heartbeat nearby. The new boy opened his eyes halfway and gazed at his brother, and his brother gazed at him, and the entire world seemed quiet. Vayne very gently held the infant close in the crook of his arm, and simply stared. The child snuggled against his chest and fell asleep, and Vayne smiled peacefully, and all was right in the world, and he knew that everything in his life was about to change.

\--

The next thing he acknowledged was a midwife who shook him by the shoulder. He had not fallen asleep, but he seemed to have lost track of time, wrapped up in the world that was his little brother. He looked up to find his father and only two of the midwives.  
Gramis held his arms out for the child.

Vayne suddenly felt a sharp feeling of dread course through him, and he restrained the instinct to take his brother and run to where his father would never find them. Instead, he slowly stood, setting the boy ever-so-gently in their father's arms. He struggled to keep the panicky feeling in his chest from manifesting.

The infant stirred, awoke, and commenced fussing.

"He knows his daddy," Gramis commented to no one, holding the child in his left arm and examining him closely. After a moment, he lay his open palm on the child's head and announced, "Larsa Ferrinas Solidor." He turned to the midwife and turned his back to Vayne, blocking the young man's view of his brother.

Something in Vayne's chest twisted and he took a few steps forward abruptly, placing himself in sight; whatever it was that was twisting, untwisted. He breathed again, not realizing that he had stopped.

Gramis discussed his lady's condition with the midwife, glancing sidewise at Vayne every so often. He passed the child to the woman, and nodded his thanks to her. He took Vayne by the arm and led him out, into to the hallway, closing the door behind him. After a moment, he faced his son. "This child, he is something special."

Vayne nodded, still spellbound but growing suspicious of his father's tone. "He is amazing."

His father gave him a half-smile. "Life is amazing like that, sometimes." His smile fell just as quickly as it had appeared. "He must be protected."

The young man nodded again and willingly met his father's eyes. "I would protect him with all that I am, until the day that I die." He surprised himself, speaking so, but found that it was easy to say as much. It felt right.

"He will be the heir of House Solidor," Gramis declared, gauging his son's reaction carefully.

Vayne smiled, relieved. "Then I will have help in protecting him." His smile faltered for a moment. "It will be a difficult life for him, if by being the heir of our house, he is also made to be emperor after you. I would seek to make this as easy a life as possible, for him."

His father considered the answer, but could find no hints of intended treason behind it, nor jealousy, nor hatred. "We are allies in this, then."

Vayne considered, then nodded. "In this."


	5. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: more child abuse

When Vayne was not in weapons or tactics training, studying with Dr. Cid, or running experiments in the lab, he was at home and his little brother was in his arms. The nursemaid hired to look after little Larsa just about had a heart attack when, still dressed in his armour and covered in mud and sweat, Vayne marched into the baby's room, swept the child into his arms, and marched right back out. She had shrieked for a full half minute, then scurried after him shouting things about being careful.

Vayne never had to be reminded to be careful with his younger brother; all the world centred around that small bundle of angry, angry infant joy. The child would scream if Vayne were late returning home, and often when the elder brother had been sent away for days or weeks to look after some sort of meeting of nobles or such that Royen despised and Gramis had not the time to attend. It seemed that the youngest Solidors, within the moment of meeting each other, had become inseparable.

Vayne spent a great deal of his waning free time reading children's books to little Larsa, even though Larsa spent much of that time drooling all over the place and occasionally entertaining himself with Vayne's hair. When he had to work, he would place his brother in a cushioned basket next to his desk, where they could easily see each other.

Gramis noted this strange attachment very early on, and mentioned it to Deyanira. Deyanira, uncomfortable around the subject of Vayne in any case, suggested that perhaps the old legend about the House Solidor was taking its current incarnation; Leonalt and Royen were friendly to one another, and Vayne and Larsa were indissoluble—if the Solidors always operated in pairs, a sword and a shield, then where was Gramis's sword?

This made the emperor exceedingly uncomfortable and suspicious. He made a point to see his youngest son more often, attempting to force some sort of a paternal bond. The child was leery of him at best, but had the infant makings of a diplomat—though Larsa never fussed for his attention, he did neither refuse it. Gramis knew that his proximity to Larsa made Vayne uncomfortable, and in this he read the beginnings of the bond that would break him.

Then, Deyanira had a wonderful idea. "Royen and Leonalt are not the same kind of pair that Larsa and Vayne seem to be," she told him in the quiet confines of their bedroom, as she lay unable to sleep due to his pacing. "The bond between the younger is what troubles you. Why not just be rid of Vayne?"

Gramis stopped at the window and contemplated having his middle son killed. "We never have been close, he and I."

"Royen is not as clever as he hopes to be," she continued conversationally. "He has said before that he wishes to take the House and the throne, under whatever circumstances will allow him such. But Vayne is very clever. He is, of his brothers, the most clever."

"And therefore the most dangerous," Gramis finished with a weary sigh. "If… If I am to do this, I will need to outsmart him."

"Send him on a task that would be suicide," she suggested slowly. "Send him on a task from which he will not return."

He shook his head and grumbled a little, disappointed that it would come to the death of one of his sons. He had always expected to have to dispose of Royen, but Vayne… "I could send him to help his brothers put down in the insurgence at Landis."

"Does he not possess the skill to defend himself?" she wondered, feigning innocence.

"That's true," Gramis allowed, thinking. "He is rather adept with a blade, but not so adept as Leonalt or… I could send him…" he turned to regard his wife directly. "I could send him against his brothers. Present him with some sort of treasonous offence that he could not know if they have or have not committed. He will go to Landis to execute them, but they will slay him, instead. Upon his return, I will explain to my Lord Sons why it had to be this way, and they shall say that he died in battle. And the House Solidor will live on."

She smiled a little at him. "You are by far the cleverest man I have ever known."

"No," he told her ruefully. "But I am about to kill the cleverest man you've ever known."

Deyanira's heart skipped a beat.

\--

Gramis waited for Vayne where he would be sure to meet him after he returned from the labs—Larsa's room. Before the young lord could enter, the emperor motioned for the nursemaid to leave. Vayne, puzzled, took the seat at the foot of Larsa's crib, across from his father. Gramis let his arm rest over the carved wooden rail, one hand on his youngest son's head.  
"Lord Father," Vayne prompted, after they had sat a long while and said nothing.

"Vayne, I… I think Royen is… I think Royen means to kill me." He summoned all of his skills as a politician (and therefore as an actor), and met the elder son's eyes with something between pain and complete bewilderment. "A report came back from Landis, Leonault has been gathering his friends to him and Royen has made some rather inflammatory speeches to the soldiers, and from the sound of it, he has garnered a great deal of support." He paused, and looked back to his youngest son, playing gently with his tiny fingers.

Vayne was speechless, but he had heard Royen speak about his father and corruption and what he called a holy purge of the foul government of Archadia. During his childhood, the two elder brothers had always excluded Vayne, telling him that they were far too busy preparing to rule the Empire. After several moments, he put some words together that roughly conveyed his thoughts. "If they kill you, they must be planning a coup d'etat that would include not only yourself, but a great deal of the senate. They will have the loyalty of the judges and a great deal of the military. They could, theoretically, do it." It was not so difficult to believe.

Internally, Gramis wondered how much thought Vayne had given this subject, and cursed that his teenage son was so fiercely intelligent. "I…" he shook his head slightly, keeping his gaze on Larsa. "It is my wish that Larsa become emperor after me. It occurred to me when he was born that he is a very special child. Surely you have felt it, as well?"

Vayne nodded, mind still sorting through his brothers and attempting to unravel their possible plans. "If they kill you but are not successful in purging the senate and judiciary, then the senate will be forced to hold an emergency election for a new Emperor. The seat will pass undoubtedly to the House Alexi, either to Jerami Alexi or one of his uncles. The House Alexi will never give up control of the imperial throne." He shook his head. "Larsa will not be of age to qualify for nomination for another fifteen years. A senate controlled by the Alexi will never make exception for a Solidor, and it will be too late for Larsa to hope to remove Alexi if they've been there for fifteen years."

"Well," Gramis chuckled a little. "I suppose I should not have supposed you would have thought of me, first."

"Do not attempt to play me as you would a fool politician, Lord Father," Vayne replied bitterly. "We have never been close."

"Of course not," he agreed. Carefully, Gramis placed his large thumb and forefinger on the palm and back of Larsa's tiny hand. "So, you will do this for me?"

The elder brother's gaze snapped to his father in alarm. "I do not believe I understand you."

Gramis rolled his fingers in gentle circles around Larsa's palm. Larsa stirred, but did not awake. "Your brothers must be removed. For the sake of Archadia, for my sake, and for the sake of young Larsa."

"You are asking that I kill my brothers," he spat, lip curling in disgust.

Gramis met his eye, and pinched down on Larsa's hand brutally. "I'm asking that you kill your brothers for the sake of your brother."

Larsa fussed, trying to pull his hand away, then awoke and began to scream.

Vayne shook with barely restrained fury, and had to physically restrain himself from leaping upon Gramis and tearing him apart. "Let. Go."

His father released the infant's hand, but kept his hand in the crib. "It would be a pity," he commented casually, turning back to Vayne with a hard stare, "if something were to happen to so special a child."

Still shaking, Vayne abruptly stood.

"So, you shall do this for me." It was no longer a question.

"I shall do this," he replied venomously, "for Larsa." He waited, watching him and wishing desperately that he had been a part of Royen's plan to kill their father. At least then, it would have been planned properly.

Gramis smiled at him, and nodded, standing as well. "An airship awaits with a chocobo, your armour, and your sword. You have enough time to send a message to Dr. Bunansa, if you so wish, to let him know that you will be gone for a few weeks."

"I will have him check on Larsa," Vayne warned, fists clenched. "If anything happens to harm him, I will return here with the armies myself and we will see how truly necessary to the House Solidor you are."

Gramis continued to smile, clasping his hands behind his back. He bent over the crib and kissed his screaming child on the forehead, then walked out with deliberate slowness.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Vayne swept Larsa into his arms and calmed him, inspecting his tiny hand for as much as a bruise. There was a red mark, but Larsa did not seem to be in much pain; he merely screamed in the same outrage that Vayne felt.

"Sshh," Vayne whispered to his brother, holding him against his shoulder and patting his back gently. "He will not hurt you now. I will make it so he will never hurt you."

It took some time to quiet Larsa, who seemed to detect the pure rage emanating from his older brother. Once he had fallen asleep, Vayne set him gently back in the crib and went to the door.

Outside, the nursemaid stood, wringing her hands anxiously and pacing outside the room. When the door opened, she rushed to it. Vayne pulled her inside and shut the door after her.

She was immediately at the side of the crib, checking on the child.

"Good woman, I need your help," he told her quietly.

She looked up with huge round eyes, clearly upset. "Did something happen to Lord Larsa? What did that brute do to him?"

Vayne pursed his lips and closed his eyes. "It was nothing permanent, only meant to hurt him momentarily."

"You shall protect him, then, from his own father," she told him. It was no more a question than Vayne felt it should be.

"He is sending me away for many weeks. Perhaps months. I cannot be at Larsa's side. I need you to protect him, do you understand?"

She nodded vehemently. "Lord Vayne, I remember… I remember you were small and he whipped you, and sent you away. I will not let that happen to another child whilst I am in the employ of this House."

He smiled. "I am more grateful for that than you will ever know. If ever you fear that my Lord Father intends to do harm to Larsa, send word to Dr. Cid Bunansa. The Bunansa residence is on Redwood Terrace, but he can also be found at Draklor Laboritories from time to time. Repeat that back to me."

"Dr. Cid Bunansa," the woman repeated, "Redwood Terrace and Draklor Laboritories."

Vayne nodded once. "Perfect. Tell him that Larsa is in danger, and he will be here with a judge inside of ten minutes."

The woman, still wringing her hands, nodded, determined. "Yes, my Lord. It will be done."

"Thank you," he told her, sparing one last glance to his treasured brother, before he turned and hurried to his quarters. He had a message to send.


	6. The Angel of Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original character death

The Solidor brothers reunited at the most forward camp. Vayne entered the largest tent like a storm, throwing aside the tent flap and striding forward to overturn a map table onto Royen. His sword was out and in his hand in an instant, but Leonalt was in his way with his own blade, turning aside the blow that was meant to thrust home, and riposting in the lowline.

"Brother?!" Royen exclaimed, finally getting a good look at who it was.

"How dare you be so foolish?" Vayne roared, parrying two and slashing out at Leonalt's high line.

Leonalt parried three and croissez'ed, turning the flat of the blade up and planting his boot against it. Before Vayne could pull free, the older and larger brother hit him hard with an elbow to the face. Vayne reeled momentarily, but pulled away with his weapon in hand, rushing Leonalt and hacking away with more force than he ever thought he could muster. He caught Leonalt's wild thrust to centre in an envelement, then expelled the opposing blade from the field of engagement with so much force that it sailed over Royen where he lay pinned by the wooden table, and slid across the tent floor. He put the sword to Leonalt's neck as the older brothers stared in shock.

"At least tell me what it is that we've so foolishly done," Royen demanded.

The request stayed Vayne's hand, but he didn't remove his eyes from Leonalt as he seethed his response. "Plotting a coup. Now." Silence from the brothers gave him leave to elaborate. "As much as I detest the old man, to kill him now would be to destroy our house and Larsa."

"Vayne," Royen answered, voice flat, "why on Ivalice would we plot a coup d'etat in the middle of election season? Not to mention the fact that if any of us killed him now, the House Alexi would be elected and we'd all be proper fucked then, wouldn't we?"

Vayne calmed a little, confused. "You know this?"

Royen rolled his eyes and pushed at the map table insistently. Finally, he sighed and looked over at his brothers for a long moment. "Doubtless our Lord Father sent you to kill us—make it look like we died in battle."

He lowered his sword, much to the relief of Leonalt. The path to revenge open, Leonalt decked him. He went down like a sack of bricks.

"Sit on him," Royen ordered.

"Right." Leonalt pinned Vayne's arms and sat on his chest.

"Now, I'm certain that you're far too clever to just come here and expect to kill us," Royen mused from the wrong side of the table. "He must have used something to get you all angry, am I correct."

"Larsa," Vayne gasped, struggling to dislodge his older brother. The scene was remarkably like what he remembered from their childhood, but the stakes were considerably higher. "He's going to kill Larsa."

A soft whistle of amazement. "That would do the trick, wouldn't it? Threatening a brother like that. Even I didn't think he was that low. Did you?"

"Nope," Leonalt replied candidly. He shifted his seat to give his little brother more room to breathe. "So, we return alive, he hurts Larsa, is that it?"

Vayne nodded, ceasing his struggles.

"He's twitchy about that legend, the one he's always on about," Royen continued, two notes more subdued than conversational. "He probably figures that you and Larsa will be the end of him, one day. And it's the truth. You two have to be. Let him up, he's calm. And get this desk off me, will you?"

Leonalt stood and offered his hand to Vayne, pulling him up easily, then went to lift the desk. Vayne stood back, in a minor state of shock.

The middle brother stood and dusted himself off, picking up the maps and organizing them. "Larsa is the key, if you haven't already figured that out—and I assume you have— to Archadia's secure future. I had hoped that perhaps it was you, but our strategy didn't work. It was untested, of course, but worth a try; the gods have given us one more shot." Royen righted his chair and sat down, setting his elbows on the map table and regarding Vayne with a physical attitude of lazy insolence, but radiating focus.

"What's your plan?" Vayne asked, fascinated. He took a seat across from his brother. Leonalt stood behind him, hands on the back of his chair, and for the first time in his fifteen years they were acting as brothers. It was a pity the circumstances were as such.

"Originally, I had hoped to depose our Lord Father and install myself as emperor with the support of the military," Royen explained. "I would prepare the way for a peacetime emperor, by completing all these meaningless wars the old fool has begun in the name of conquest. By the time I had finished with such a thing, you were to be ready to take my place." His eyes narrowed on Vayne, measuring. "But we trained you wrong. We trained you to be tough. We antagonized you, tried to make you turn on us, so that we wouldn't be a weakness when the time came to put you on the throne. We tried to break you so you couldn't be broken later. It's a military strategy, I should never have used it on a youngster like you, but the plan was as the plan demanded."

"A peacetime emperor need not be as tough as a wartime emperor," Vayne objected, trying to comprehend what he was being told. I was a puppet. And I'm not certain I feel too badly about it.

"Wrong." Royen punctuated his answer by dropping his fist against the tabletop. "A peacetime emperor must be twice as tough as a wartime emperor. A peacetime emperor has to deal with politicians, avoid assassination attempts, maintain the peace, and prevent corruption. A peacetime emperor has to deal with domestic policy, and domestic policy, let me tell you, is a nightmare like nothing you've ever imagined. A peacetime emperor has to be sharp, quick, and fierce." He smirked. "That's why we wanted it to be you, and not one of us. You're smarter than I'll ever be."

"Apparently not," Vayne noted, stunned. They sat in silence for a few minutes. "We have to protect Larsa," he said finally, having sorted out the enormity of what had just happened to him. "Above all."

The other brothers nodded in agreement.

"As much as I hate to say it, the old man has got to live for awhile longer," Royen muttered, running his hand through his hair. "The senate is none too fond of any of us, and will not accept our nominations. And you're three weeks out from being eligible for nomination, anyhow."

"The Alexis," Leonalt fairly growled.

"They're incompetent bastards," Royen spat, "but they're damnably popular. They would cause a lot of damage in the interest of their personal business. House Solidor depends mainly on the import of magicite and the development of magicite technologies, and you've got a handle on that, haven't you, Vayne?"

Vayne thought of his work with Dr. Cid. "Was that part of your plan, as well?"

"No, I'm sorry to say it wasn't," he admitted. "It was a stroke of luck on your part and sheer genius on the part of Bunansa. You've made a lifelong friend, and a useful one, at that."

"He was kind to me," Vayne muttered. "I will repay the favour to him someday."

"Make his son a judge," Royen told him.

"Father will never do such a thing," he scoffed. "He has no love for the House Bunansa. Especially now."

The middle brother shook his head. "Not Father. You make his son a judge. We will need the House Bunansa."

The younger brother thought for a moment. "To have the authority to do that, I would need to be commander of the Combined Judiciary and Armed Forces. You are closer to that than I am, I am merely a provisionary commander, and that's only in times of direct need." He furrowed his brows and closed his eyes for a moment. "Of course," he whispered.

"What?" Leonalt demanded.

"Father doesn't want you dead," he explained. "He wants me dead."

"Explain," Royen ordered sharply.

"Why would he send me to kill you, and not a Judge, if the case were as he described it, he could have you quietly assassinated and no one would ask questions. Additionally, I am not as brilliant a swordsman as you, nor so strong as Leo. He expected you to kill me."

The elder brother let out his breath in a hiss and shook his head.

"I agree," Royen nodded to Leonalt. "We can't have that at all. Especially if that's what the old man wants. If we return alive without you, he can deal with us as time allows, and no one will be there to keep Larsa from him. If we return alive with you…"

"Larsa," Leonalt growled.

"Right." After a few moments of quiet, Royen finished the thought. "So, we don't return."

"Rozarria?" Leonalt suggested.

"For you perhaps," Royen told him. "One noble body missing, and it looks like we weren't recovered from the battlefield. Two noble bodies missing, and it looks like our brother hasn't done his job."

"You go then," Leonalt ordered without pause. "Rozarria or Dalmasca can hide you."

"No," Royen chuckled bitterly. "The war will come to Dalmasca. Rozarria would use me against father. You have a chance to be safe there, because of Margrace."

The eldest brother grimaced, pained at the idea of what was to come.

"We could find two soldiers of the enemy who are built like you," Vayne suggested quickly, not eager to lose his brothers so soon after he had finally discovered them. "We could remove their faces, dress them in your armour. You could both go, you both could—Margrace?"

Leonalt grinned a little. "Al-Azir Margrace," he explained. "Man of my dreams."

"Oh. That's got to be handy." Vayne blinked, then pulled a face. "And awkward. Margrace?"

The eldest brother chuckled a little. "Well, it's not like Archadian law would allow us to be together, even if we weren't posturing for war."

Vayne turned his attention back to Royen. "You don't have to do this."

Royen's expression turned to stone, and his eyes fairly burnt. "Vayne, listen to me. I need you to trust me. The hell to come will burn you the worst, but you must protect Larsa. Larsa must become emperor. To achieve this, you must, must be what you'll need to be. You'll need to be strong, stronger than anyone you've ever known. You'll need to keep your own council. Don't trust anyone; with the exception of Bunansa. Don't tell anyone what must happen or what you are going to do. Even Bunansa. Don't leave yourself or Larsa open to attack from any angle, physically, mentally, or politically. You must be unshakeable. You must be. Do you understand?"

Vayne frowned deeply, but nodded. "I believe I do."

"Who are your friends?"

"Only Doctor Cid Bunansa," he replied quietly.

"When you leave this tent, you don't have any friends." Royen massaged his temples with his fingers. "You'll need to be commander of the combined forces inside of five years. Don't trust the senate, they'll try everything they can to get rid of you once they see that you won't do what they want. Let them think you will, at first, it will buy you time. Time enough to control the military. The military and judiciary are forces that the senate cannot touch. Keep the military under your thumb, always. And the judges. Zaargabath might give you trouble, and keep an eye on Drace—her intentions will always be good, but she's a little too bull-headed. As soon as you are commander, assign at least one judge to protect Larsa—you will not always be at his side, and he will be your one weakness. He must be your only weakness, do you understand?"

Vayne ground his teeth together and took a deep, shuddering breath. He desperately wanted to shoot himself in the face—at least then, his problem would be simple and easy to identify.

Leonalt set a hand on Vayne's shoulder encouragingly. "I won't be able to contact you from where I'm going," he told him, "but if ever you need help, send a sealed letter to Al-Azir. He will understand."

"Thank you, but that would put you in danger, would it not?" he asked, looking up at his eldest brother.

"Better me than Larsa," he smiled sadly. "Better me than you."

Royen appeared to be deep in thought. "There is no possible way I could prepare you for this," he whispered. He looked up apologetically. "All the world is about to fall on your shoulders, and there's not a damn thing I can do to help you but die."

Vayne closed his eyes and laughed to himself quietly. "I have brothers. Real brothers who don't hate me. You have already helped me more than you know."

"No," he insisted darkly. "We haven't helped in this, only hurt. More than you know."


	7. Caius Brutus

Royen sat awake for the entirety of the night. Leonalt had prepared for his journey, and sat with him. They had magicked Vayne to sleep some hours ago, in preparation for the young man's first real battle, and now they sat around the fire silently. After a time, they walked the camp together, giving words of encouragement to the soldiers who remained awake. Just before the grey light of the time before dawn, they knelt together behind the tent and prayed together.

Soon after the sun rose, the three brothers led a charge of three hundred soldiers out to battle against the guerrilla resistance; they met them in the woods, where the very trees seemed against them. The battle was executed with brilliant strategy on the part of the insurgence, but they never had a chance. When the battle was slowing, and the last of the violence happened in the few clearings opened by magicite blasts, the three Solidor brothers slipped off into the trees in the confusion.

Leonalt did not speak; he embraced both his brothers at once, then gave Royen a pained look.

"Go, before you cannot," Royen barked sharply at him.

He left, but as he did there was no mistaking the tears in his eyes.

The remaining elder brother watched after him for a time, then looked back at Vayne with a sad smile. "It's on you, now." He set a hand on his brother's shoulder and met his eyes. "Speeches, Vayne. Soldiers and citizens, they like speeches."

"Do not do this," he requested quietly. "Flee to Rozarria. I'll make something up. Let the Gods look after Archadia."

"We can never leave the fate of our family and country in the hands of the gods," Royen spat, pulling his little brother to him in a strong embrace. "We are the authors of destiny. Help write Archadia's story." He took Vayne's dagger from his belt and thrust it between his own ribs, into his heart.

Vayne clung to his brother all the more tightly, holding his weight as he collapsed. "No," he sobbed, then he howled wordlessly at the sky. "This did not have to be this way!"

"Be strong," Royen bade him once more. He wrapped his weakening hand around his brother's and brought it to the dagger, closing both their hands around the handle and holding them there.

And then he was still.

\--

Vayne strode out in front of the soldiers a different man than when they had seen him last. His armour and hands were covered in gore. His face was stone. His posture was straighter, and his fists were clenched. He radiated a kind of anger and hate that made men fall back in awe.  
An officer approached him with a chocobo; at seven paces he stopped and saluted sharply, then nodded to the bird.

Vayne nodded back, and mounted. From that elevation, he could see the entire formation of surviving troops. He brought the bird back and forth a few times, pacing in front of them. When he spoke, his voice rang out like steel on steel, and it echoed in the Landisern valley.

 _Speeches,_ Royen's voice echoed in his mind. _Soldiers and citizens. They like speeches._

He wished his brother with him. Where do I begin? He bit his lip for a moment, and then he began.

"I saw my brothers die today," he told them. "Leonalt Solidor died at the hands of the enemy, as they carried him off. Royen Solidor died at the hands of the enemy, attempting to save him. They died in defense of their family. And they died in defense of me, and of Archadia. That is how it is, in times of war. As I have come to understand, yours is a provisionary battalion. Some of you will not have seen combat before. Some of you will not have seen your brothers die. I had not seen my brothers die until today, and as I live I will seek to prevent seeing any more brothers die before me.

"As I live, I will secure Archadia and her holdings. As I live, I will defend our mother country. Archadia is our mother, and that makes us brothers. Leonalt and Royen, they were your brothers, too. All of those who died today were brothers-in-arms and valiant sons of a noble empire. As you have lost family, so have I. As I live, I will fight to preserve our Archadian family. As we live on, we must see Archadia's sons home, that their mother country may mourn them. The god of war said that they must die; they were all honourable men. I have neither wit, nor words, no worth, action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech to stir men's blood; I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know, and show you those that have fallen for Archadia. Let us bear our noble brothers home, that their country may know all that they have done."

Vayne bowed his head, allowing a single tear not in memory or honour of his brothers, but for the sake of the act. The formation broke and the men gave a roar of agreement. _Speeches, brother,_ he hoped Royen could hear his thoughts.

\--

Vayne returned to Archadia with the support of a little more than two hundred men, and was met by the grief, gratitude, and condolences given by those whose family he had brought home in caskets. He did not know precisely how it had come to be, but he had returned with the reputation of a hero.

He returned to the house of his father with a pair of blood-stained white gloves and the corpse of his middle brother.

The emperor had appeared openly shocked at which son had returned to him. He covered it with concern for Vayne's safety, of course, and he played at grief whenever he could be sighted; but Vayne met the man's true face when Gramis called him into the study.

"You returned home true to your promise on one count," the old man acknowledged. "But where is Leonalt? If he has escaped from you—"

"The enemy burned him to death with hot oil," he reported stoically. "I thought it best not to return home with such a mess as was left."

Gramis studied him, trying to detect a lie, but he could discern nothing. "You've made a wise choice," he said at last. "Go see to your brother. He's been crying hours a day since you left."

Vayne looked away, but displayed no emotion. "My hands are stained. I will not touch my brother until the blood is cleaned from my fingernails."

Gramis left the study without acknowledging this.

Vayne closed his eyes and pressed his lips together firmly. "Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers," he whispered, and prayed that Royen could hear him. "Thou art the ruins of the noblest man that ever lived in the tide of times."

\--

Cid and Ffamran Bunansa attended the memorial service and funeral of Leonalt and Royen Solidor. Vayne was glad of their presence, though custom required he stand with his father and step-mother. With his foster father's support, he was able to stand stoically and coldly by while his brother's remains were interred in the imperial family's plot outside the Grand Cathedral of Archades. The service was simple, but the flowers were not, and Vayne was certain that there was some sort of social or political gerrymandering going on somewhere in the crowd. It made him sick.  
It occurred to him that Royen might think it hilarious if he were to puke all over the coffin out of sheer disgust for the Archadian social order.

The memory of his brother's laughter made him sicker. He spent the majority of the service attempting not to vomit.

At the end of the service, the "mourners" wandered away in packs. Cid and Ffamran stayed behind, and sought to divide Vayne from his family for a moment.

"Lord Vayne," Cid addressed him formally, offering a hand. "How do you fare?"

Vayne held his expression and shook hands stiffly. "I fare as a well as one might, who sees a brother in the ground. I… thank you for your concern. I will see you Monday?"

Cid regarded this new, steely Vayne with a certain degree of concern. "I look forward to it."

"Good day," Vayne dismissed him, and walked away. He could feel Cid's eyes on his back, and the small part of him that was still human wished to run back to him, to wrap his arms around the man's neck and cry on his shoulder, as he had done as a child. But that part of him was all but dead. He knew that, having returned home from a mission his father did not intend him to survive, any of his friends would become his father's enemies. He did not wish for Cid or Ffamran to suffer from his new lot.


	8. The Saint of Salvation

Vayne's steely exterior lasted for several years, tempering only when he was with Larsa or alone with the Bunansas. It served him well, and he moved up in the ranks of the Archadian military until, with a great deal of cautionary posturing and strange orders meant to test his loyalty to the Senate, he was appointed Commander of the Combined Judiciary and Armed Forces. At twenty-one, he was the youngest to ever hold the post.

He prayed to his dead brother that day, and sent the news in the form of a coded letter to Al-Azir Margrace of Rozarria. Then, he went to Draklor to give himself time to think, clear his mind, concentrate on something he knew.

Cid came in much later with a curt, "Good day, Lord Vayne."

He set the flask he was holding down, lest he drop it. The glass made a resounding click against the cold slate table.

As soon as the door of the lab closed, Vayne gave a quiet sob and began to shake violently. Alarmed, Cid rushed over and caught him, allowing the young man to clutch his sleeves.

"Shh," he hushed him, shocked at the sudden show of emotion after five years of nothing. "What's wrong, what's wrong. If you can tell me, I will hear it."

"Royen said… to be strong," he choked, throat closing with panic and the effort not to weep. "So… I shall be."

Cid pursed his lips and held Vayne bracingly. "There's something going on, isn't there?"

Vayne nodded, shaking and clutching his surrogate father's sleeves in the manner of a man drowning.

"And I can't know what it is, can I?"

Vayne shook his head, then bit his lip so hard that it bled. With a start, he pulled back and brought his hand to his lip; as he brought it away, he choked again at the sight of the blood on his fingers.

Cid observed with a dark understanding. "Oh. Yes, of course. Let's get out of this place, eh? Let's get to the coffee room. We can talk there." He reflexively reached over and turned off the burner on Vayne's project, and led him by the elbow out of the lab.

The young man followed, still trembling from the attack; he didn't focus when Cid gave him a napkin to hold to his lip, nor did he notice when the older man seemed to listen to something only he could hear.

"Of course, yes!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up. "Vayne, I've someone you should meet."

Vayne looked up, emerging from the haze of his panic attack and staring at Cid as if he were insane.

Cid grinned as if he actually were insane. "Vayne Solidor, I would like you to meet—Venat!"

And behind him, the air shimmered, and Vayne's life took another sharp turn.

\--

Venat was a blessing. She became Vayne's only god. He and Cid worshipped together at the temple of science, and they knew salvation together at the hands of a rebel Occuria.  
Venat helped Vayne, guiding his hand in his choices as a military leader. She separated him into parts to help him function; one part, the scientist that helped Cid at Draklor. One part, the beautiful monster that played the aristocracy against each other. One part, the sharp mind that wrought its will upon the Senate and all the world. One part, the brother who held Larsa in his arms and read to him, taught him to speak and read, helped him with his studies, played games with him, kept creeps away at his father's social functions, and eventually took him to Draklor to learn about nethicite.

Vayne never let go of his brother's plans. He expounded upon them, to be sure, with the help of Venat—conquer all of Ivalice and bring it under one government. Then he could offer it to Larsa on a silver platter, and guard him in the time of peace. Even when Venat took his body and twisted his mind, he was ever dedicated to the protection of his brother. When Larsa had raised a sword to him, he knew that his choice, and his father's choice, and the choices of his brothers, they had all been correct.

Larsa Ferrinas Solidor was meant to rule the world. He was the only one who would ever be worthy—and he was proving it by giving it up.

As soon as Larsa was incapacitated, Vayne felt the last of who he was slipping from his grasp. He left the Bahamut's upper deck, and forced himself—and Venat—as far from his brother as possible, before he surrendered his soul and Venat took his body.

\--  
 _  
Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, aged ten years, sat at his mother's feet in the parlor, and watched his brother glide through the hall towards his room. Moments later, he returned down the hall, stopping at the door.  
Larsa shivered. Vayne was no longer the brother he had known since his birth; he desperately wanted his brother back. For a moment, when Vayne pushed the door open and smiled at him with the fondness of family and the love of a brother, Larsa saw him. But his Lady Mother, Deyanira, pressed Vayne back outside._

_Through the crack of the door, he heard the hiss of their whispers and saw them as they moved back and forth past the door. His mother, making overtures of affection and love, and his brother rejecting all of them with an air of disdain. His mother again, touching his brother in a way that mothers ought not touch brothers. His brother, brushing her off with irritation and sharp whispers. His mother, whining in a low voice. His brother, marching away._

_His mother returned to the room in a foul temper, and went to the window. "The Lord Vayne," she informed him in sharp tones, "would like you to know that he'll be in his study."_

_Larsa puzzled for a moment. "Mother," he inquired. "My Lord Brother is too old to be your son, as I am."_

_Taken off her guard, she paused before answering, "Yes. He is the son of your father by his second wife, before me."_

_"You are not Vayne's mother."_

_She chuckled a bitter negative._

_"Does he know?"_

_"Know that I am not his mother? I dare say he does."_

_"No, you misunderstand me," he frowned impatiently._

_"What, then?" Deyanira replied, pressing her face to the glass of the window._

_"Does he know that he's not my brother?"_

_She squinted for a moment. "What do you mean, darling? Of course he's still your brother. He is your father's son, still."_

_"My father is not the Lord Gramis." Larsa said slowly._

_Deyanira regarded him carefully for a moment before she answered._

_"No. He doesn't know."_


End file.
